


strange how this journey's hurting

by themorninglark



Series: title prompt challenges [5]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Daisuga friendship, Gen, Kuroken friendship - Freeform, University era, about being someone's best friend, and moving on and apart, title prompt challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 22:51:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5803417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/themorninglark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>His hair's growing out, a little more black than blond now. If he leaves it alone for much longer, it'll be close to brushing his shoulders. Suga wonders if there's no one left to remind him to cut it.</p>
  <p>He smiles back, and slides easily into a comfortable place next to Kenma.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	strange how this journey's hurting

**Author's Note:**

> Title Prompt Challenge with [nein](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nein/pseuds/nein), Round 3: Vienna Teng Edition!
> 
> I was given this prompt from ["Eric's Song"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?hl=en-GB&gl=SG&v=kK3C_VsxmHM), and I basically looped the entire song nonstop while writing this fic, so I highly recommend doing the same when you read. It is a really breathtaking, delicate song.
> 
> SugaKen is one of my favourite rarepairs ♥ I'm glad to finally write something for it.
> 
> Please read nein's delightful and witty response to the challenge, [you are made of nebulas and novas and night skies](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5876125)!

 

_(the travelogue of a no. 2, in fragments, discovered through time)_

 

It's a flurry of rain on the pavement, and Suga hears the softest of footsteps, a yellow boot treading so lightly in puddles that he barely leaves any ripples. He leaves the trail undisturbed the way he comes, branches still whole beneath his feet.

The budding spring leaves fall from the trees overhead, one by one. He comes to a slow stop.

When he speaks, it's a drifting murmur into the gale of their sudden April shower, and the raindrops carry his voice to Suga's ears.

"Sugawara-san…"

Suga raises his free hand in a cheery wave.

"Hi. You must be here to meet Kuroo."

Kenma nods.

He has his hands in his pockets, the posture familiar. His hair's plastered across his cheek in flyaway strands, damp from the drizzle, and the hood on his red Nekoma jacket's up; seeing it brings back memories, sets Suga's pulse racing, just a little, like he's on the court again, and then the moment passes and he's watching from the bench, keen eyes on keen eyes. Reflections of burnt caramel in amber.

"Come on in. You'll get soaked," says Suga, beckoning him under the shelter of his umbrella.

Kenma, frozen for a split second, takes a tiny step forward, then another.

 

* * *

 

Their encounters are fleeting, a gentle exhale, an arm's length.

Suga comes to know the shape of every other Saturday. Weekends are different, here in the city, they're a ride on the high speed train line and a takeaway hazelnut latte, sweet and warm in his hands as he leans back against a wall of red brick.

It's solid and cool through his jacket. His scarf flutters at his throat, light blue, pale against the sky, the earthy brown of the trees all around the university courtyard.

He's not always the first to show up. Sometimes, he crosses the road to see Kenma, gym bag by his feet, fringe obscuring half his face, gaze fixed downwards.

Sometimes, Kenma will be intent on the game in his hands, and sometimes, he'll glance up from nothing in particular at the sound of Suga's step, and the rare flicker of a smile will cross his lips.

His hair's growing out, a little more black than blond now. If he leaves it alone for much longer, it'll be close to brushing his shoulders. Suga wonders if there's no one left to remind him to cut it.

He smiles back, and slides easily into a comfortable place next to Kenma.

They wait side by side, a study in patience.

 

* * *

 

On a chilly May morning, they share a hot drink from the vending machine.

"I used up almost all my coins at the arcade yesterday," says Kenma, with a tinge of apology, as he turns out his pockets to find a lone 50 yen coin.

Palm upturned, he holds out this immeasurable prize to Suga. It glints silver in the sunlight.

"Hmmm, okay…"

Suga sifts through his own loose change with a furrowed brow, grins in relief as he does the math under his breath, and totals the lot up.

"I think we've got enough for one. What do you like, Kenma?"

There's a pause before Kenma says, "Milk tea," so Suga drops their coins into the machine with a satisfying _plink_ , presses the button for milk tea and offers the first sip to Kenma.

"Do you go to the arcade often?" Suga asks.

"Not so much, now," Kenma murmurs, as he hands the can over.

Suga lets the welcome warmth flow through his body as he drinks deep, and muses briefly on how easy it is for habits to change, when circumstances do.

He fancies himself not too shabby at the controls of a console, could offer to go with Kenma, sometime; but he knows he'd be no substitute, and honestly, he doesn't want to be -

 

(he could be so much more.

they could be so much more.)

 

* * *

 

And Suga's spent his life thinking that -

Flitting in and out, between shadows and safety nets, always reaching for the wind as it slips through his fingers. Glimpses of fairy lights wink at him. He seizes every chance to wink back, to tell the world _oh no, not today, today I'll be -_

(More, he dares to whisper, dares to dream.)

 

> **_the travelogue of a no. 2,  
>  _ ** **_entry #584_ **
> 
> _weather: fine, with a chance of light rain. breeze from south-south-west_  
>  _location: in a train carriage from tsukuba to tokyo, passing by mountains covered in greenery, which are very lovely in the distance  
>  _ _energy level: fair, may need afternoon nap  
>  _ _internal monologue: overthinking continues apace_

 

The journey is neverending.

 

* * *

 

"Funny, isn't it?" Suga asks, with a small laugh. He looks up at the cirrus clouds streaking the sky.

Kenma shoots him a fleeting glance, tucks his hair back behind an ear. "What?"

"How we're always waiting."

The words slip lightly off Suga's tongue, trippingly, out of the tart orange tang at the back of his throat, into the stillness of summer that wraps around them.

His fingers break off another segment of fruit, and he holds it out to Kenma.

Kenma takes it with a tiny nod of acknowledgement.

"I'm used to waiting," is all he says.

A beat passes. From overhead, the chirp of a sparrow pierces the air; it's drowned out a moment later by the sharp tinkle of a bicycle bell, the rumbling of the train on the tracks in the distance.

"Me too, I think," Suga admits, after a while.

It's strange to hear this, spoken aloud. Like a confession, quiet and secret, nestled in the heart of his palms; palms that know every nail and groove of the bench, have etched in the ticking seconds with their worn-out, half-bitten fingernails as he watches the points flip, watches Daichi play.

"Kuroo's always got something on his mind. And he's always ahead of me," says Kenma.

His voice is soft, his expression thoughtful. From anyone else, _to_ anyone else, perhaps, it might sound like resentment, to Suga, it sounds like a fond benediction, the kind of generous letting go that only best friends can manage, when their shadows start peeling apart and they feel the light on their backs.

And as they stand at their crossroads, the dusky hour grows late.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, his past selves feel like they're still running, trying to keep up.

Sometimes, they trip -

Over the battered memories of things that could have been, wistful hopes and broken broomsticks, tucked away in the back of a supply closet.

Trapped in sepia and the overbearing hum of his own thoughts, he returns, over and over again, to the sands of an hourglass that trickle ever downwards. When he looks down, the sight is infinite, and so are the possibilities that fill his racing heart.

It's the smallest touch of a hand at his elbow that makes him slow down.

 

> **_the travelogue of a no. 2,  
>  _ ** **_entry #???_ **
> 
> _weather: warm, balmy  
>  _ _location: at a kerbside near a Tokyo university  
>  _ _status: <error - on the brink of - >_

 

* * *

 

Suga smiles, brilliant in the crimson sun, and tilts his head downwards.

He hopes he looks, acts, braver than he feels. If it were anyone else, he thinks, he'd fool them easy, but Kenma's not anyone else.

"Well, maybe this isn't waiting," he says, lightly. "Maybe we're moving forward, on our own."

His fingertips, scented with orange peel, tingle. There's the slightest pause before Kenma speaks.

When he does, it's more to himself than to Suga, almost. His hands have found their way into his pockets again, and he's gazing over in the direction of the university gym, where Kuroo and Daichi are finishing up their training for the day.

"That sounds scary," he murmurs.

Suga sighs.

"It is," he says.

He lets out a determined exhale and lands a light fistbump on Kenma's shoulder; lets it linger, for a second, feels the rise and fall of Kenma's long, shaky breathing as he steadies himself into the touch, and relaxes.

In the distance, the sound of a final whistle goes off.

 

* * *

 

(Their convictions are pictures in fallen yellow-green leaves, a rustle in the shade and an ache that's tender, sweeter for its intimacy.

When they walk away, they leave their footprints behind.)

 


End file.
